


Cotton Candy

by amorae



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cotton Candy, Drunk Sex, F/F, High Sex, Lesbian Sex, Phone Sex, because yeah, blah blahblah, have I mentioned lesbians yet, lesbian phone sex, lesbians, there are lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:12:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorae/pseuds/amorae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxy Lalonde usually drunk calls Jane Crocker, but she's never called Jane while high before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cotton Candy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tonight Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/326823) by [thatonelesbianyouknow (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thatonelesbianyouknow). 



> You would think the fact that I'm a lesbian would make me a pro at writing lesbian sex scenes. Mostly it makes me anxious and it makes me want to roll around on the ground screaming about what a terrible writer I am while I hate myself for continuing to pretend I can write despite my clear inability to do so.
> 
> I was supposed to write my friend a Jake/Dirk fic. Instead I read "Tonight Alone" (while trying to get used to how Jake/Dirk talk and such) and then I started to write and it became a Cotton Candy fic instead of an Irish fic. Or whatever. I'm stupid. 
> 
> I'm sorry if things are sort of out of character, I wanted this to be more like "here, guys, have some sex" as opposed to "here, have a well written story." So that was my intent. I like phone sex. It's fun. 
> 
> Enjoy and please don't hate me too much for mischaracterization/poorly written sex! La la la.

Your name is Jane Crocker and you weren’t expecting a phone call from your best friend right at this very moment.

You pick up, already a little hesitant. You know your best friend like the back of your own hand. By that, what you’re trying to imply is that you know your best friend is drunk calling you.

Now, to be completely honest, you usually don’t mind the drunk phone calls. Sometimes, even, they’re actually kind of cute! Usually she just starts babbling to you about Jake and Dirk, spilling all of their secrets to you in her drunk stupor. You just laugh her off, refusing to tell anyone else those secrets (really, who would you tell?) while gasping and reacting appropriately at the right times. After she’s done gossiping, the conversation drifts into different waters, and you enjoy the challenge of trying to keep a drunk teenage girl on one topic for longer than about two minutes. By the end of the phone call, she’s slobbering “I love you, Janey, no, really, I _loooooooove_ you,” and you can imagine her exaggerated facial expressions and body language in your mind as she practically drowns in her drunkenness. You laugh at her, tell her that you love her too, but that you think she should go to sleep. You tell her to be careful, to get a good nights sleep, to drink water, and to remember that you’ll always be there for her. Then the two of you hang up, and you place the phone down on your beside table, smiling at it as you turn the light off and go to sleep yourself.

That is how drunk phone calls usually go between the two of you. However, that isn’t how _this_ drunk phone call goes.

Immediately, you can tell something is different, because of the sound of Roxy’s voice. It’s low and gravelly, an octave lower than it normally is. She says “hi,” and then she starts laughing. Somewhere in the middle of her laugh, it turns into a cough, and you are starting to get really concerned that she might be choking on something. “Are you okay?” you ask her, clutching the phone and pulling your knees up to your chest, frowning in the general direction of nowhere. She lives entirely too far away for you to be thinking about a road trip—by the time you got there, she’d be sober—but that doesn’t stop you from seriously contemplating the pro’s and con’s of stealing your Dad’s car and hightailing it the fuck out of here to go find your friend.

Her response is to laugh even harder. “I’m a’right, Janey,” she mumbles, her voice even lower, and the first word that pops into your mind is that her voice is almost _sultry,_ which is a ridiculous thing to think! You don’t think you’ve ever described anyone as _sultry,_ much less your best friend when she is clearly in dire need of help of some sort. You open your mouth to respond to her—clearly she isn’t okay, or “a’right,” whatever that means—

“I’m high,” she says, and then she giggles. It’s breathy and light. Everything begins to click into place. Her voice is gravelly because her throat is dry, her voice is lower due to the pressure on her vocal chords, and this is much different from her usual drunk phone calls because it’s not a drunk phone call. It’s…what would you call it? A weed phone call? You’re not even sure if she’s smoking weed! You’ve never dealt with anything like this before. Roxy drinking one too many martinis is normal. Roxy taking a hit off a bong most certainly is not.

Suddenly, your mouth feels dry and you find yourself squirming just the tiniest bit. “Are you safe?” you ask her, not really sure what smoking weed normally entails. Is it dangerous? Is she going to get hurt? Did she drink on top of smoking? All of these questions go around and around in your head, and you’re imagining horrifying scenario’s where she dies because you aren’t there to keep her safe.

She doesn’t respond for a moment, and you begin to fear the worst. But then her response of “Y-yeah, I’m, I’m fine,” comes, and her voice hitches between the sounds in _yeah._ Terrifying thoughts flash through your mind, thoughts of her choking or being asphyxiated. But then you hear her chuckle, and it’s so low and deep that you can’t help but have your thoughts dive into the gutter. “Beh, better than fine, actually,” she says. You hear the bedsprings shift faintly on her end, the sound tinny and far away in the phone’s receiver.

“What are you high on, Roxy?” you ask. You’re startled when you realize how difficult it was for you to find your voice. You lick your lips and place both hands firmly on the phone, pushing your body beneath the covers and curling up on your side. “I don’t mean to pry, I’m only worried!”

The only sound is the static fizzing between the phones. You hold your breath until she responds. “Smoked some weed, I’m safe, don’t—ah!—don’t, wuh, worry.” Her voice peeled off into high pitched terrain at the last syllable in _worry._ Her voice cracked, and you find yourself wondering what it is she’s doing.

It takes a moment for you to find the courage, because somewhere inside you, you know what’s going on. You’re 15, after all. You may be innocent but you’re not _that_ innocent. “What are you doing?” you ask, and you can’t help but notice how there’s fear and something else laced in your voice.

Roxy responds by asking a question of her own. “What do you think I’m doing?” It’s the first steady thing she’s said the entire conversation, and the way she says it has your fingers twitching against the plastic case of your phone.

“I…I don’t have the faintest idea!” you tell her, removing a hand from the phone and placing it against your stomach. “How could I have any reasonable clue as to what you are doing? Why else would I ask?” You laugh, nervously, and realize how ridiculous this situation already is. Roxy has called you, high as a kite, no doubt, and you are allowing your thoughts to fester somewhere deep inside the gutter. An image flashes through your mind, one of Roxy. Her cheeks are flushed, the color creeping up her cheekbones. Her eyes are heavily lidded, lust pooling somewhere around her pupils, and her lips are dark and swollen. She bites them, tilting her chin up the slightest bit as she exhales deeply through clenched teeth. The image in your mind is enough to make a strangled sound desperately try to escape _your_ lips, but you clamp down on it before it can. You shake your head the slightest bit, blinking, and press your fingernails into the soft flesh of your stomach.

She exhales again, the sound small, but more than enough to kick start your imagination all over again. “Have I told you how much I love you, Janey?” she asks, her words stumbling over each other. “I, I wish, you where here, _ah!_ , with me, right now.” Each intake of breath sounds like a misplaced comma in your mind, and you find yourself whispering “I wish I was there, too,” into the receiver.

And, if you were still having doubts as to what Roxy was actually up to, your doubts are extinguished when the girl lets out a small moan. It crawls down your spine and nestles itself deep inside you, pooling warmth through your body. Suddenly the covers that encase you seem too warm, but you want more of it, more warmth, more pressure, more heat surrounding you. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time and then Roxy makes the sound _again_ and you have to fight the urge not to respond with your own mewling.

Roxy says something, and through the haze in your mind it takes you a moment to deciper what he said. It sounds like _tahlk to me,_ the words low and getting stuck in her throat. She takes a deep breath and tires again: “Talk to me, ask me something, s-s _ah!_ y something.”

You shudder and let your hand travel down your stomach the tiniest bit. You rest your palm over your belly button, and your hand feels so warm against your skin. You think about what Roxy’s hand would feel like, resting there, or better yet, what her mouth would feel like, trailing kisses down your body, pressing her tongue against your hip bones, traveling lower—

“What are you thinking about?” you force yourself to ask, doing a bang-up job of keeping your voice steady and calm, you think.

One half of your mind is continuing a rather lewd fantasy of Roxy, hovering over you, her hands pressed against your shoulders as she nips at your collarbone, and the other half is having a panic attack.

You are currently having phone sex ( _oh my god_ you think as you come to this realization) with your best friend who is currently inebriated in ways that she usually isn’t. You are technically taking advantage of her at this moment, because she obviously doesn’t know what she’s doing. After all, doesn’t she, like, have a crush on Jake, or something? It doesn’t matter whether you have feelings for her or not (a fact you’ve only come to recognize in recent weeks). What matters is what she wants, what _she_ is comfortable with, and she isn’t exactly in the right state of mind to make these decisions at the moment. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve been considering professing your own feelings for her, but have been too afraid to do so because you’re so sure she’ll reject you. It doesn’t matter that you realized you’ve been in love with her for at least a year. None of that matters. Right now you are taking _advantage_ of your bes—

“You,” she says, and the word sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“What about me?” you ask, the rational and irrational parts of your brain battling it out inside your head. It’s a very confusing bundle of sexual thoughts and self hatred, and for some odd reason, it all just adds to the warmth spreading through your abdomen down. You feel your hands trembling and you clutch the phone tighter in response.

“You, you’re, luh-lying on the bed, and I’m, I’m kiss-ing you, and—” she stops for a split second, inhaling deeply, before she continues “—and we’re, I move lower, kissing you, your throat, yuh-your ch-est…”

You realize that you just made the most embarrassing sound. You actually just moaned! You don’t think you’ve ever moaned in your entire life. Roxy responds to your sound almost immediately, and you feel your fingers pressing against the waistband of your pajama pants. The rational part of your brain is getting smaller and smaller as Roxy continues speaking, until it’s almost nonexistent, and all you can think of is Roxy doing unspeakably dirty things to you in the dark of night. 

“Do, do you, do you want me to go farther? Would you let me…?” Roxy asks, her voice hitching as she speaks. You surprise yourself by answering “Yes” without even skipping a beat. She cries out as soon as you say this, and you have the loveliest image of her in your mind, squirming on her bed, her face flushed as she works herself to completion. 

You want to be the one making her climax. You have never wanted anything more than that in your entire life. 

She breathes into the phone, her breaths short and shallow, and you’ve lost the battle with your wits as your hand crawls beneath the band of your pants. “What, what would, yo-ou let me do to you?” Your mind races and you wonder if you should just hang up right now, finish yourself off, cry, and then go to sleep. But it’s too late to turn back. 

“I’d…I’d touch you,” you say, your words coming out as no more than a whisper. “I’d. I’d let you, uh, oh shit, I’d let you fuck me.” 

And then Roxy is actually _crying_ into the phone, the influx sharp and piercing, and it is the most amazing sound you have ever heard in your entire life. She chokes out a strangled “Janey!” somewhere in between the exhales and shuddering cries. The sounds are enough to bring you over the edge, although you’ve only been at it for a few seconds. Your body is drenched and shaking, your hand covered in your own bodily fluids, and you find yourself moaning Roxy’s name under your breath as you reach climax as well. 

The two of you remain on the phone, spent and exhausted, for a few moments longer. Then Roxy starts to laugh, her voice back to that same lower octave, and you can only imagine what it must be like to be her right then. In her post-orgasmic haze, on top of the high, she must be nearly falling asleep. 

Yet she finds the energy to say “Thank you” and “I love you, Janey,” just like she always does after her drunk phone calls. But this time, you’re tongue tied. You can’t figure out how to respond. There are so many things you want to ask her—was this just a one-time thing, will she remember in the morning, what the _fuck_?—but you can’t bring yourself to ask any of it. Instead, you respond that you love her, too, and then you hang up the phone. You place it in the space between your legs and your torso as you curl up into the fetal position, staring at the wall while you drift off to sleep, wondering what any of this means in the long run.


End file.
